


The six black swans

by Adara_Rose



Series: Thedasian Fairy Tales [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff, Happy Ending, Love at First Sight, M/M, Magic, Romance, happy ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:16:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adara_Rose/pseuds/Adara_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six children of Elf-King Mendanbar, cursed to fly 'neath the sun for ever in the shape of swans, unless their brother Icthlarin can save them. Which he will... if he can keep from getting distracted by King Trevelyan's gorgeous court mage.</p><p>A Thedasian Fairy Tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which a jealous queen acts very rashly

_ Prologue: The Kingdom of Brecilia _

 

To the far east of Ferelden there was a tiny Kingdom, surrounded by all sides of deep, dark woods. It was the elven kingdom of Brecilia, ruled by King Mendanbar. The elves of Brecilia were a free, proud, beautiful people, although few. Many elves preferred to wander, and they were known as Dalish or the People of the Dales. But the elves of Brecilia lived mainly in the elven city of Arlathan, the city of trees, built high above the ground. In the heart of Arlathan laid the palace of King Mendanbar, and in it resided the King with his six children, four princes and two princesses. The King had been blessed with three sets of twins, each set bore to him by influential and powerful mages. High Lord Cyrion, high priest of the Gods, had bore the first set. To his King he had given Beatrice and Bellerophon, fair of face and wise of mind. The sorceress known only as the Lady of the Woods had given him Celeman and Clement, both blessed with wandering spirits and restless dreams. Lastly Istimaethoriel, who served her King as the Keeper of Knowledge, had given him Icthlarin and Ilona, who both were gentle-hearted and sweet of nature.

 

Brecilia was known as ‘land of trees and gemstones’, the former due to the thick woods that covered most of the country and the latter for a very, very old tradition in the royal family, the origin of which had long ago been forgotten. At birth, a royal child was given gemstone that was, through a secret form of magic, linked to their souls and in a way became their source of power. It was then shaped into a teardrop and attached to a circlet of gold. The circlet was to be worn always, and it was common for little princes and princesses to be dressed in the color of the stone that had been chosen for them, and to be given the epithet  _ Prince of the… _ or  _ Princess of the… _ . Thus, King Mendanbar of Brecilia was also called  _ The King of the Ruby _ or  _ The Ruby King.   _

 

King Mendanbar was not really a man of traditions, but even he had to bend his head to some of them. Therefore, he carefully chose soulstones for his children in the hope that they would serve them well. His eldest daughter, princess Beatrice, with her golden hair was given the sapphire. Her twin brother, wise Bela with his dark red hair, he gave the emerald. To his wandering sons, Clement and Celeman, he gave the amethyst and the onyx. To the youngest, sweetest twins, he gave the ever-changing amber and the nigh impossibly rare morganite. The amber for Icthlarin with his mane of wild red curls, and to gentle Ilona the morganite. The maids at the castle dressed the royal children in the colors of their stones; Beatrice in shades of blue, Bela in vivid green, Clement in purple and lavender. Celeman wore black and grey, Icthlarin was dressed in all the colours of autumn, and Ilona in an array of pinks. The children grew up together and loved each other as well as siblings do, but Celeman left the palace when still a mere child to wander far and wide to learn of the world around them. When he returned, they were stunned to see his dark hair turned a snowy white, scars marring his pale skin, and the silks and velvets of the court changed for black leathers. He called himself Fenris, and though they were bewildered at first they soon embraced and kissed their dear brother, at last returned, and from that day knew him as nothing but Fenris. It was the same day their dearest brother Clement came down to lunch dressed in a dress as lovely as the creations his sisters wore, in a shade of lavender that made his eyes glow. He asked them to call him sister and Kallian, and since they had already accepted the wild warrior Fenris as brother they had no issue in kissing and hugging their sister and calling her by the name she had chosen for herself.

 

And so, King Mendanbar had three daughters where he before had been blessed with two. And he loved his third daughter as well as he loved her sisters. From that day forth, the maids dressed the middle princess in soft lavender and gentle purples, and woved amethysts in her long dark hair. 

 

So was the state of the royal family of Brecilia when our story begins.

 

~~~~

 

King Mendanbar looked at his children over his soup bowl and considered his words carefully. Then he spoke.

“I have something of utmost importance to tell you, my children.” He dunked his bread roll in his bowl and waited to garner their attention. When he was sure that he had most of them, he went on, figuring that Beatrice would inform Bela of what their father had said. Sweet Bela was so engrossed in his book he had failed to notice his braid lying in his soup and therefore had not heard his father speak, but the rest of them blinked at him in varying grades of confusion. 

“What might that be, dearest father?” Kallian was first to find her voice. 

“Well, now that you all are of age” the king smiled at Icthlarin, the youngest and prettiest Prince, who had just turned fifteen. “I think it is high time that I went on with my life. You lot keep telling me I've been alone for too long, so..." Ilona smiled brightly.

“You have met someone, father!” She crowed, delighted.

“Well, yes.” the king admitted, blushing slightly.

“I knew it” Fenris muttered sardonically. He turned to his twin. “You owe me a new sword.” Kallian ignored him.

“Who is she, father? Or he?” Beatrice wanted to know. King Mendanbar smiled dreamily. 

“Her name is Athenril, and she is arriving here in the morning. We will be wed at the end of the week.”

 

~~~~

 

Since the king’s word was the country’s law, the wedding was held at the end of the week. The royal children were slightly wary of their stepmother, but Lady Athenril soon won their hearts and their loyalty without question. She was lovely and gentle, and accepted them all as they were without question or reluctance. Oddly, the only one who was still wary of her was the youngest and sweetest of them all, Icthlarin.

“I know not why” he said unhappily to his twin when she questioned his motives. “I just… do not trust her. Please, sister, do not ask why. I cannot answer you.” He looked so bereft that she chose not to press further, instead comforted him to the best of her ability. 

 

Time passed, and soon it had been nearly a year since the king’s wedding. During this time, the new queen had bore a child, little prince Feynriel, and he was universally adored by his siblings who thought him the sweetest of the sweet. Even Icthlarin adored his little brother and never tired of amusing the child, whom the King decreed should share his own red ruby as his soul-stone. They were all so happy, they failed to see the darkness growing in the queen’s mind after the birth of the child. She feared that the king loved his older children better than her son, and feared that she had only bore him the one child where all his previous had been blessed twins. In her mind grew the sick thought to be rid of the older children, so that her son would be the only prince left. That way, King Mendanbar would have no one else to love and hold. 

 

She plotted carefully, wanting to choose the perfect spell to ensure she got what she wanted. She did not want to kill the princes and princesses, no, but she did want them gone from the lands, never to return. So she researched in secret, and plotted in the silence of her chambers, until she had her spell ready. She would direct her curse at their soulstones, and thus collected six gems that she carefully enchanted in the darkness of the night. But the queen had made a terrible mistake; in her haste to be rid of the princes and princesses, she had mistakenly taken from her jewellry box not a piece of amber, but a ruby. But the queen did not see her mistake in the dim light of the moon, her only witness the night she cast her spell, and once it was completed she hid the stones in a magic-containing pouch beneath her bed. Then, she simply bided her time for an opportunity to release the spell.

 

For many months Queen Athenril waited with growing frustration for the opportunity to bespell the royal children, but since she did not want the King - a strong mage in his own right - to be able to stop her, she would have to wait until he was not present at the castle. Eventually, the King had to leave the castle to go broker peace between a clan of wandering elves and the King in the country bordering on his own lands, leaving his children with his queen. Athenril did not wait a full day before she asked the children to join her in the audience chamber, for she had something very important to tell them. 

 

The moment the doors to the audience chamber closed behind Fenris, the last to enter, the queen opened her pouch and began her spell. The six gemstones fell, one by one, from the pouch and onto the floor, shattering on impact. As they shattered, a fine grey mist immediately enveloped the prince or princess who had the matching soulstone. They all cried out in horror and tried to flee, but the sturdy doors were locked behind them and there was nowhere to run. Princess Beatrice tried to shield baby Feynriel with her body when she saw a brilliant ruby fall to the floor, but she had nothing for it as the next stone that fell was her own - the sapphire. Prince Fenris pushed his youngest brother, Icthlarin, behind a pillar in an equally desperate attempt to protect him from the curse. 

 

It all happened distressingly quickly, and it was all poor Icthlarin could do to watch the transformation. With growing despair he saw Fenris’ black leathers turn into downy black feathers, Beatrice's full mouth become a yellow beak, Ilona's dainty feet change into webbed feet. Then, suddenly, it was over and where his siblings had stood were six black swans, the last one only a tiny chick, all of them crying out in sorrow as the circlets they had worn around their heads clattered to the floor, the brilliant stones now dull and empty. Then they spread their wings as one and flew out the window, leaving him behind. Icthlarin ran after them, wailing and crying, pleading with them to come back. But no matter how much he wept, he stood helplessly watching them become smaller and smaller against the sky until he could not see them at all.

He sank to the floor, insensible, and knew nothing more.

 

~~~~

 

When prince Icthlarin awoke from his fainting spell, he found himself in his chambers, tucked safely in bed. His father was sitting by his bedside, his face ravaged with grief as he wept quietly. Icthlarin immediately sat up and embraced his father, thanking the Gods that his father had not been affected by the queen’s curse.

“I will save them” he vowed. “I will find a way to break the curse and bring them home.” 

But the king begged with him to stay; the thought of losing the only child he had left was simply unbearable. He had already imprisoned his Queen, and he was now desperate to keep and protect the only family he had left. But no matter how he cried and begged, cajoled and eventually threatened, Icthlarin would not be swayed. He could not bear the thought of his sweet sisters or dear brothers flying beneath the heavens forever, cursed into the shape of birds. He simply must save them.

 

As soon as he could talk the castle healer into allowing him out of bed, he packed some clothes and provisions, gathered up his siblings blessed circlets, kissed his father goodbye and set out to save his siblings. He walked for a whole day straight ahead, into the woods that surrounded the lands of Brecilia. Even though he soon became hopelessly lost, he refused to lose hope. He would save his siblings somehow, no matter how much time it took. 

 

Eventually, the first day of adventuring ended and an exhausted Icthlarin stumbled into a clearing he had never seen before. There was a little cottage, and smoke puffed out of the little chimney in a way that was almost cheery. Icthlarin decided to trust to luck, and went over and knocked on the door.

 

The woman who opened the cottage door was old, but there was something about her eyes that spoke of even greater age than her face showed. 

“Good evening, prince of Brecilia” she said before he had introduced himself. “Come in and rest your weary feet.” Icthlarin smiled gratefully at her and did just that, accepting the bowl of stew and dark bread she offered him with profuse thanks. After having eaten, the old woman - Flemeth, she said her name was - offered him a few blankets and a pillow, and curled up before the dying fire the exhausted Icthlarin swiftly fell asleep.

He dreamt of flying.


	2. Chapter 2

Icthlarin woke early, blinking at the morning sun falling in through a small window, and wondered where he was. Then he remembered. The curse, his siblings, the quest, the woods, the old woman… Flemeth, was that her name? He sat up slowly, wincing at stiff muscles and his aching back, and looked around. The small cottage was crammed with items clearly of a witch’s trade; potion bottles, herbs, books. Icthlarin felt a small tendril of hope since that horrible moment in the Great Hall. If the woman who had showed him such kindness was a witch, maybe she knew how to help him save his siblings. He folded the blankets neatly, then left the little cottage looking for his hostess.

 

He found the old woman making breakfast by a small cooking fire, and she nodded in greeting as he ventured closer.

“Good morning, prince. I trust you slept?” 

“Yes” Icthlarin answered truthfully, grateful she had not asked  _ how  _ he’d slept. 

“Now, are you ready to tell me why you are out here?” Flemeth asked, looking at him with her sharp eyes. 

So Icthlarin, between bites of a porridge that was rather on the bland side but filled his empty stomach nicely, told his tale. Flemeth listened quietly, nodding in places and frowning in others. Once he had finished, they sat in silence for several moments. Then Flemeth spoke.

“I know of which you speak, but I will not tell you more until I receive my payment.”

“And what is your payment, witch-woman?” Icthlarin asked, prepared to pay any price.

“A lock of your hair, elf prince.”

Icthlarin cut a lock of his lovely red hair, and handed it to the old witch.

“The curse the queen cast is an old one, rather of out fashion these days.” Flemeth said, “The magic is very potent, and just like all old curses the rules are very specific when you want to break it.” 

“Do you know how to do it?” Icthlarin begged, nearly breathless, looking at the old witch with his pleading green eyes.

“Of course. Provided that you have their soulstones.” She replied, amused. 

“I do!” the prince cried.

“Well then,” Flemeth said  decisively. “Wash up, and I will show you.”

 

 

Flemeth took Icthlarin on a walk through the woods, showing him various herbs and berries that were good to eat. Finally, they arrived at a small cave by a large field. The field was covered in a lovely purple flower, but when the prince leaned down to scent them he stung his hand on the leaves. He whimpered as the cut immediately started to sting and burn, and put his fingers in his mouth to soothe them.

“These are nettles” the woman said, “a common garden weed in the human lands, where we are now. We crossed the border about an hour ago. These weeds are the key to saving your brothers and sisters.” Icthlarin waited patiently for the explanation, still sucking on his stinging fingers.

And so Flemeth told him he must pick the stinging leaves with his own bare hands, crush them beneath his naked feet and with the fibres make a coarse thread. This thread he must then weave into fabric, and finally use the fabric and the coarse thread to sew six shirts, one for each of his cursed siblings. As he completed each shirt, he must then dye it in the exact color as that sibling’s soul stone. He had six years, one for each sibling, to complete his task, but there was an additional clause: from the moment he picked that first leaf, he must not speak a word. He must complete the task in silence, and not until he had sown the last stitch on the last shirt may he loosen his tongue. Icthlarin stood still and quiet, contemplating. His fingers stung terribly still, but his sisters... and his brothers... his eyes filled with tears as he thought of little Feynriel, barely able to walk, and now doomed to fly beneath the skies for ever unless he, Icthlarin, suffered the nettles. There was, he realised, no decision to make. He looked at Flemeth with grim determination.

“Show me to make the thread, witch-woman” he said. “And teach me to weave. I will save them.”

 

 

The first few weeks passed slowly, as Icthlarin learned the painful task of making the fabric he needed. His hands stung and bled as he picked the nettles, skin reddening and burning. His naked feet were covered in blisters after having crushed the leaves beneath them, and the first few skeins of thread were so uneven they were unfit for use. Frustrated, he threw them in the little fire he had burning in the cave for warmth, and fell to his knees weeping in despair. But even in his desolation, he remembered what the witch had warned him and not a sound passed his lips. After the tears had stopped falling, he stood up with new determination. He picked up the basket that Flemeth had been kind enough to give him, and ignoring the pain he returned to the field and started filling it with the wickedly stinging nettle-leaves. For each leaf he picked he thought of his siblings: Kallian’s dark hair, Ilona’s laughter, the way Bela smiled… and each memory filled him with new determination. He  _ would _ suffer the nettles. He  _ would _ save his siblings. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Spring passed into summer, and in his little cave Icthlarin worked tirelessly each day. He rose at dawn, picked his basket full of nettle-leaves, then returned to his cave. Throwing the leaves on the ground, he trampled then beneath his feet, crushing them until there was little left. Then he took the fibres and spun the thread, weaving another section on the little loom. He would not sleep until he had used all the thread even though the night was late, and he collapsed onto his little bed with exhaustion. Then he rose again, at dawn, and started all over again. And he did this day after day, week after week, not a sound passing his berry red lips. There were days when his loneliness and sorrow had him weeping from the beginning of the day until he fell asleep, but still he toiled. There was nothing he would not suffer for his siblings. But oh, how he longed to see them, just once! Just once!

 

 

* * *

 

 

The year turned, as it is wont to do, and another spring came to the little forest and the young elf in his little cave. Icthlarin worked every day, but he had to go further and further away from the little cave to find nettles. But still; in his cave he had a completed shirt, dyed a sweet pink for his own twin sister Ilona, and the loom held more fabric. The loneliness was at this point nigh-on unbearable, even though Flemeth had taken to visiting him at least once a week. Even though there was little said - he must not make a sound, and she was not much for talking - he truly enjoyed the old woman’s company. But oh, how he missed his siblings!

That night, as he put the work aside and looked out the cave opening to see the moon shining over the bare field that did not yet bear nettles, the tears once again filled Icthlarin’s eyes. This time he let them fall, and sank to the floor weeping soundlessly at his loneliness and despair. He was so heartsore he could have sworn he heard the flutter of wings, but surely not. There were few birds out where he lived, and even if there were birds they rarely ventured out at night while the snakes and owls and hawks hunted. Icthlarin buried his face in the simple pillow he had made to show Flemeth he knew weaving well enough to start making the nettle-shirts, his entire body shaking from sobs, when he felt slender arms wrap around him. He jolted upright, hardly daring to believe it was true. Ilona, his twin, sat next to him and held him tight. And behind her, he could see the rest of them. Feynriel rested safely in Bela’s arms, and they all looked at him with love and joy.

“Brother!” Beatrice cried and rushed to embrace him now that he was aware of their presence, and within moments he was surrounded by their arms as they laughed and cried their joy at having found him at last. Even Fenris was smiling, his eyes bright with joy. They told him, interrupting each other and talking in part-sentences, how they had searched for him all over the lands of Brecilia, and how they had finally found the witch-woman Flemeth who told them where he was. They wept over his sore hands and his sisters washed his feet, wrapping them in soft cloth they tore from their worn dresses. They kissed his hands and his cheeks and begged him to speak to them, tell him what had caused such injury, but Icthlarin only shook his head and held his silence. Instead he showed them the nettle-shirt he had made, showed them the coarse thread and the loom. And they understood. They cried even more when they saw what he was doing, what he was suffering, and they held him and kissed him and told him stories of their journeys across the world during the year they had been parted. As the night ended, they kissed him one last time and promised to come back in three months time, underneath the full moon. Four nights a year they were allowed to walk the earth as elves, on the night of the equinox. 

Icthlarin tried to smile, but found himself weeping as the sun rose upon six black swans spreading their wings and taking off, leaving him behind. But it was with a light heart he went to pick up his basket; he would see them again in three month’s time.

 

 

* * *

 

It was early summer as Icthlarin hear voices other than Flemeth’s or his siblings in a very long time. It was two human men, arguing, as they stood in the middle of the road. Icthlarin stood very, very still amongst the trees and listened, intrigued despite himself. 

“How the blazes did you manage to get us lost in your own kingdom!?” The first one yelled, clearly exasperated. He had dark hair and a neatly trimmed moustache.   
“It is not as if these woods come with a pre-drawn map!” The other replied, sounding more frustrated. He flailed his arms wildly, his messy dark hair tumbling into his bright blue eyes.

“Oh, you mean like the one you held upside down, getting us lost in the borderlands in the first place?” The first one snarked. 

“Well if YOU had not been so busy flirting with that innkeeper as I was trying to get directions-”

“I was NOT flirting! I was trying to negotiate a better rate!”

“You were attempting to negotiate him straight into your bed!”

The argument would probably have gone on quite a bit further if not for the fact that the taller of the two men, the one with intense eyes and an elegant moustache, saw a shimmer of red hair between the trees. Hoping it was not a malicious creature of some kind, he called out.

“Ahem, excuse me!”

Icthlarin hesitated. His fear of strangers warred with his instinct to be helpful, a trait that had made him dearly loved by his people. His indecision gave the two men a chance to approach him. Icthlarin slowly lowered his half-filled basket, waiting in resignation for whatever fate had in store for him. He just hoped that they were not scoundrels or brigands. Then again, scoundrels and brigands did not usually wear crowns or the royal seal of house Trevelyan. The shorter of the men, the one with the messy hair and the crown, gave Icthlarin a beautiful smile that was just a bit flirty.

“Hello there gorgeous” he said in a voice that sounded friendly and a bit cheeky. “You do not happen to know how two dumbasses get out of these woods and back to the castle before dark?” He looked hopefully at Icthlarin, ignoring how the other man muttered  _ ‘Dumbass? Speak for yourself, your highness.’ _

Icthlarin opened his mouth to reply, then remembered what Flemeth had said about the curse on his siblings. He quickly closed his mouth and settled for nodding. He gestured for the two men to follow him, and started moving through the woods. The prince and his companion exchanged puzzled looks, then the one with the moustache shrugged and followed the slender elf through the trees.

 

As they walked, Icthlarin learned that the shorter one with the kind eyes was indeed prince “Wren” Trevelyan, and the man with the moustache was his dear friend and royal mage, Ser Dorian Pavus. Apparently, the prince had had a craving for adventure and dragged the long-suffering Ser Pavus along with him, getting them both helplessly lost in the forest bordering on the little kingdom. They seemed to have a friendship consisting mostly of insults and sarcasm, and several times poor Icthlarin had to press his hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. Even though the Witch of the Wilds had not said anything about laughing, he figured it was better to be completely silent all the same. He concentrated on the correct path and keeping his silence, the memory of his twin sister’s terror-stricken face helping him to focus. This single-mindedness made him completely unaware of how Ser Dorian’s eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from his hair, his legs, and the way he moved. The mage was, to the prince’s unending amusement, completely enthralled of the beauty escorting them back to the main road.

 

It was late afternoon when they reached the edge of the forest, and to both prince Wren’s and Ser Dorian’s great relief they could see the castle in the distance. They thanked their silent guide profusely, Dorian pressing a reverent kiss to one of Icthlarin’s small hands, noting the blisters and red soreness of the fine white skin. He sent a tendril of healing magic through the kiss, healing the worst of it, and Icthlarin smiled at him in silent thanks. Then he turned, and disappeared into the woods, swiftly vanishing between the trees. Dorian stood for a few moments just staring, hand still raised as if to take the elf’s. Finally, a snickering prince got him out of his stupor.

“Cute little thing” Wren teased. 

“Oh, shut up!”


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, Ser Dorian  _ did _ indeed find the red-haired elf to be cute. And even though his friend took great pleasure in teasing him about it, it was not a full week before he was once again heading into the woods. It was a fool’s errand, something he was very aware of, but he couldn’t help it. He had to see if those eyes were as green as he remembered. 

There was just something about the mute redheaded beauty that drew Dorian like a moth to a flame, and soon enough he found himself going into the woods on a semi-regular basis - at least once a week. It was odd; the slender youth did not say a word to him, indeed most of the time he acted as if Dorian was not even present. But at the same time that was rather enjoyable; he could sit at the entrance of the little cave and read uninterrupted, drifting away into different worlds and thought processes. They would share a simple meal of berries and roots, sometimes bread, and then he would wish his little friend good night and return to the castle. 

 

As time wore on, these visits became more and more frequent. In the beginning, this was mainly to avoid the Queen, who seemed to get more and more frustrated the more time wore on. She had two sons, both of whom refused to marry no matter what she did, and she wanted grandchildren. This led to her already volatile temper flaring with increased frequency. The two royal children had inherited their mother’s temper, and the rows were spectacular. Sometimes Dorian even watched, thoroughly amused by the chaos. But most of the time, he wanted the quiet and calm to read. And he found that in the woods, in the little cave with its silent occupant.

 

The fact that the occupant in question was beautiful was not a bad thing, either, and as the weeks became months it became the main reason he went there. Especially after prince Lysander had ran away from the castle. It was rumoured that he had at last been seen wearing a dress belonging to a female servant, but no one seemed to know for sure. Dorian hoped that wherever the youth was, he was happy. He deserved to be happy. So did his good friend prince Wren, come to think of it. The prince had become more sullen lately, his tantrums on the level of his mother’s.

 

Dorian sighed, put his book down, and watched the elf pick nettles, not so much as wincing even though it must hurt terribly in his red, sore hands. Hands that Dorian took in his own each night, healing them to the best of his ability. He was stunningly beautiful with the sun shining on his red hair, and once more Dorian found himself wishing the boy would speak to him.  If only there was more than one voice heard in this little meadow perhaps it would not be so difficult to speak about what he had been thinking lately. Of how he wanted to kiss that sweet mouth and clasp the fragile youth to his chest. He had found himself dreaming of bringing his sweet elf to the castle, to have them living together in his chambers and… well, living happily ever after, more or less. Wasn’t that the way the story was supposed to go? Not that he had ever before dared to dream of a happy ever after; no, not a man like him. Not a man who had no interest in women. But something about this elf made him hope. If only he had not been mute. Dorian sighed and listlessly turned a leaf in his book, letting his eyes rest upon the willowy form. Maker’s breath, he was beautiful.

 

Icthlarin stole another quick glance at the man sitting cross-legged on the ground outside his sanctuary. He didn’t understand it; he had taken a vow of silence, and with his single-minded focus on his dreary task he was no real companion at all. So why did Ser Pavus keep returning? Why did he come, day after day, just to read? Surely there was a fine library at Castle Trevelyan. But soon, surely he would stop coming, Icthlarin thought. The air was growing colder and colder each day and soon winter would be upon them; there were less and less nettles to pick, and soon there would be none at all until spring came again. He nearly had enough fabric for a second shirt now, but he wondered what he was to do all those long, dark winter days when it lay finished, as he only waited for the sun to come again, to bring the nettles back to life so that he may start picking. He would be all alone then. His heart ached at the thought, for though they had spoken but little to each other - or rather, Dorian had said but little to him - it had been all too easy to lose his heart to the mage. Some nights, he even dared to dream that one day he would not only save his brothers and sisters, but that he and Dorian would be married, and do what every prince and princess in a fairy tale dreams to do: live happily ever after. But mute as he was, he did not know how to tell Dorian this. He dreaded winter with all his heart, for with the cold would come Dorian’s absence. He could not bear the thought of not seeing him at all until spring, and the thought of not seeing him at all again was impossible. He must come again with spring, he  _ must _ . 

 

* * *

 

So came winter, and the first snow fell over Icthlarin’s woods. There were no nettles to pick and Bela’s vivid green shirt lay finished next to Ilona’s. Icthlarin sat at the edge of the cave and looked out at the white covering the lands. It fell thick and heavy, and he shivered with the cold. Had he been this cold the first winter? He could not remember. Surely not. Surely it had not been as unbearable as this. He sighed and curled up, trying to make himself as small as possible to hide from the bitter winds. His thoughts drifted unbidden to the man who had stolen his heart away, the handsome mage who had become his constant companion. He longed for him with an ache that seemed to settle in his bones, the sorrow at his absence as deep and painful as the longing for his siblings. Icthlarin leaned his head against the rough stone and blinked away his tears. Surely Dorian had not forgotten him?

That was when he heard it.

“Red?” It was the name Dorian had given him once he realised that he would not speak. Red, for his hair. He stood up and hurried out of the cave to greet him, not caring that his feet were bare. He sank into the snow up to his calves, surprised that it had gotten so deep already. But he cared not for that either, seeing only Dorian getting down from a big black horse, coming to greet him with the smile he always gave Icthlarin when he arrived. 

It had been two moons since he had seen the man last, and in his delight at the reunion he ran straight into his arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The slight stubble under his lips were a strange feeling, as was the moustache tickling his face. He bit his lip to keep from giggling.

“Well now” Dorian said, amused. “That is what I call a greeting.” He turned his head, and their eyes met. In that moment, Icthlarin was unguarded and he allowed his eyes to say what his voice dared not; he looked up at Dorian with his heart in his eyes, adoration in each line of his face. 

 

Dorian felt as if someone had stolen his breath as he looked into those beautiful eyes. He saw the love shining out of the bright green orbs, and his traitorous heart did a little dance of pure joy in his chest. He had longed for Red every day of their separation, but the whole castle had been in a state over the upcoming Satanalia celebrations and he simply had not been able to get away until now. But as he stood there in the snow with the frail, shivering body of his elf clasped to his chest, he swore not to ever stay away for so long again. He had missed him too much. Instead, he wrapped the shivering form in his thick cloak and undid the saddle bags, full of food and provisions that he had gathered up for his little friend out in the woods. 

 

As they huddled together in the cave, wrapped in Dorian’s cloak and watching the snow fall outside, they found themselves looking more at each other than anything else. The golden circlet in Red’s hair made his skin glow, the amber hanging from it turning his eyes molten. As Dorian leaned in to kiss him, the lush lips opened immediately under his. He pulled Red close, letting his hands slide lower. His reward was a breathless little sigh, arms winding around his neck, and a warm body pressing against his. They fell back onto the pile of furs that composed the bedroll, mouths pressed together even as their clothing fell away. It was freezingly cold outside, but they paid the storm no mind. They kept each other warm.

 

* * *

 

 

When spring came, Icthlarin once again picked the nettles, spun the thread, weaved the fabric, sewed the shirt. This one was for his second sister, and he had already found a patch of sweet purple flowers to use for the dye. But he did not work as diligently as he had before, as Dorian came to visit several times a week and each time he came they spent it learning each other, loving each other. Books and nettles lay forgotten as they spent time together, wandering the forest, bathing in the lake, lying together for hours in the little cave that had become a love nest for both of them. 

 

Spring faded into summer, summer faded into autumn, and with each visit Dorian was a little more reluctant to leave. Soon winter would be upon them, and this winter the Queen had arranged for multiple balls and parties to take place in the hope that her remaining son would at last choose a suitable bride. Attendance was mandatory, and for the entire winter Dorian would not be able to leave the castle at all. This meant not seeing Red until spring - and that was unbearable! 

“Come to the castle with me” he said one day, “you are bored to tears out here anyways, there are no nettles to pick.” he frowned. “I wish you would just tell me why you are so obsessed with them, Red.” Icthlarin just looked at him helplessly.

“I know, you can not speak.” Dorian stole another kiss. “But you can nod your head. Come now, give me a nod and let me take you back to the castle. you will be warmed and clothed and we can roll our eyes at the princesses together.” Icthlarin looked at him for a moment, then nodded his head. Dorian was right; there was no point in staying in the woods all winter. He could not do his work anyways.

 

The winter passed in a flurry of balls and parties, and Icthlarin found it all rather amusing how the princesses would fawn and fall all over themselves in order to please a man clearly not interested in any of them. Indeed, prince Wren seemed bored with the entire spectacle and spent as much time as he could with Dorian and Icthlarin, making the latter shake with suppressed mirth at his wicked humor. Wren and Dorian had quite fun competing in who could make the cruelest observation whilst still coming off as polite, and it was an endless sense of amusement to see the princesses try to discern whether or not they were being insulted. And each night, Icthlarin slept on Dorian’s arm. 

 

* * *

 

Spring crept over Trevelyan Castle slowly, turning a tree here and a bush there a sweet green, and suddenly it was all over in bloom. Icthlarin, who had spent a most wonderful winter with Dorian, realised that there would soon be nettles in his little meadow and started readying himself for the journey back, thinking only of his brothers and sisters. 

Dorian was most reluctant to let him go, but when Red’s eyes filled with pleading tears he could not refuse him.

“But I will visit” he swore as he pressed reverent kisses to his hair, “and this winter, you will be my own again.” Red smiled and nodded, pressing his body against Dorian’s one last time before leaving the castle. His heart was light, and his feet barely touched the ground as he returned to his cave. 

 

 

* * *

 

Another two years passed, and two more shirts lay complete in the cave as Icthlarin sewed the fifth one. This one he would dye a deep, solemn black for his wandering brother, who wore his onyx with pride. He found himself smiling down at the work even as his fingers ached, for he knew now without a doubt that he was loved. Loved by the mage who visited him every few days, took him in his arms and whispered of their future together. A future, neither of them had dared to dream off only a few short years ago. It was late autumn, and this year his joy had made him work twice as hard - would not Dorian be surprised to see that he had enough nettle-thread spun for the last shirt to be woven this winter! The last shirt, the one for little Feynriel. His only worry was where to find a suitable red to dye it, but surely Dorian, who knew so much more than he would ever hope to learn, would know of something. 

 

But as autumn faded into winter, Dorian did not come and Icthlarin despaired. He had not seen his beloved mage since summer, and since he had no way of communicating or indeed knew anyone at the castle apart from the prince and his love, he knew not what kept him away. Finally, as the first snow fell, Icthlarin packed what mattered to him - the five finished shirts, the nettle-thread for the last one, and his sibling’s soul-stones - and started the long trek to castle Trevelyan to find out what had happened.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

It was a late, cold winter evening when Icthlarin at last reached castle Trevelyan. The snow was falling thick and heavy, and he shyly crept around the high walls to find his way inside. How he was to ask what had happened to Dorian, he did not know; he was mute, and could not write in the human language. But luck was on his side; the cook, who was an old but kind woman, was outside to see to the chickens when she saw the slender youth in the courtyard. She invited him in, and gave him broth to drink and bread to eat. When her questions were met with silence and pleading eyes, she stopped asking. Instead, she told him he might stay if he would sweep the floors and tend the kitchen fires and fetch the firewood. She gave him a cot in a corner of the kitchen to sleep, and so he stayed.

 

Living at Trevelyan Castle was hard work, but Icthlarin did not mind. What he  _ did _ mind was his inability to find out anything about Dorian. Mute as he was, he could not ask any questions and no-one ever told a fire-tender  _ anything. _ All through winter, he took to listening at doors and private conversations, but he learnt nothing. Well, nothing useful, anyway. He learnt that prince Lysander was said to have run off with a tevene mercenary, that dragons had been sighted near the eastern border (actually, much closer than that: Icthlarin had seen one flying over his forest) and that the queen’s temper was most foul these days. But not a word about Dorian - or indeed, as he noticed after a few weeks - about prince Wren. 

 

FInally, Icthlarin decided to stop trying to overhear something useful - and crying himself to sleep - and instead focused on trying to find an unused loom where he could weave the cloth for Feynriel’s nettle shirt. That task proved nearly as impossible as learning of Dorian’s fate. But he must not falter now, that he was so close to finish his task. And besides, once he had finished and freed his siblings, he would be able to ask as many questions as he desired. 

 

* * *

 

 

As the winter turned into spring, the cook noticed that her fire-tender was most devout and a very good worker. He never complained, always performed his duties to the best of his ability, and was never late for anything. There was nothing to complain about, really, and so she decided she would like to know her mute little helper a bit better.

“Come, Red” she ordered, for she too called him so after his hair, “attend me.” Icthlarin obediently put down his broom and scurried over to where she stood, working a bread dough. 

“I have seen you guard that bag of yours with your life. Show me what is in it.” She ordered, and with great reluctance - fearing he would be shown the door if he refused - he obeyed her. The cook looked at the nettle-shirts and the uneven thread, and then she looked at Icthlarin.

“The swan curse” she murmured, gently. “That is why you will not speak. Your brothers.” Icthlarin's eyes filled with tears as he nodded, relieved to find someone who understood at last. He rubbed at his eyes with shaking hands, but it did not help. The tears fell hard and fast as he cried - for Dorian, for his sisters and brothers. For himself. 

“There now, child, how much time do you have left?” The cook asked and Icthlarin slowly raised five fingers.

“Five months?” The cooked asked and he nodded in confirmation. They stood in silence, she kneading the dough, he weeping. Then she spoke.

“There is an old loom in one of the storerooms at the bottom of the southern tower. It should still be in good shape. Make the nettle-shirt there.”

Icthlarin’s hopeless eyes lit up and he smiled at her, the smile that never failed to dazzle anyone who saw it. The old woman gave him a wry smile in return.

“I expect you to still tend to your duties, boy. Curse or not, those fires do not stoke themselves.”

Icthlarin nodded happily, and pressed a grateful kiss to the old woman’s wrinkled cheek. The smile he got for his trouble was bashful and embarrassed, but pleased as well.

“Oh, off with you.” the cook muttered fondly.

 

* * *

 

 

A few weeks later, as Icthlarin had finished his duties for the day and was to go to the loom in the southern tower, the cook stopped him.

“Take this tray with you and show it to the guardsmen at the stairs, they’ll show you to the prisoner.” Icthlarin felt bewildered - there was a prisoner at the castle? He had not had a clue! But as he was mute, all he could do was take the tray with its meager contents and hurry to the southern tower.

The guardsmen took one look at Icthlarin’s tray and immediately let him past, directing him to the door at the very top. Balancing the tray on his hip, he carefully opened the door - and the food tray immediately slipped from his suddenly useless fingers. The man who sat on the thin cot, his arms and legs in heavy chains - was  _ his Dorian.  _

Without thinking, Icthlarin ran through the tower room and threw his arms around him, tears falling unbidden into Dorian’s dark hair. The man sat still and cold for a moment, then turned his face up to look into Icthlarin’s eyes.

“Are you real?” He begged. “I have dreamt of you coming to me so many times… please, please be real this time…” 

Icthlarin cried and wanted to console him, but dared not utter so much as a cry. Instead he pressed kisses to his beloved’s face, over and over again, trying to show with touch that he was there, that he was real. Finally, something changed in Dorian’s eyes and with a cry of joy and relief he pulled Icthlarin close, plundering his mouth with kisses.

“Red” he moaned, reverent. “My Red, my Red, you are here, you are real…” 

They fell together onto the cot, desperate to prove to the other that they were in fact real, they were together at last.

As Red lay dozing in Dorian’s arms, the mage began to speak.

“They say I have done away with Wren.” His voice was low and sorrowful. “Nothing I say will make them believe otherwise. And why should they? No sane man would claim that a huge black dragon stole the prince from the gardens.” 

Icthlarin froze, and remembered the dragon that he had seen flying over the woods. It had held something in it’s massive claws, but he had been so focused on hiding at the time that he had not seen what it was. The prince! Surely it must have been the prince! But he could not say a word. Not until he finished the last shirt. A wave of determination swept over him and he pressed one last kiss to Dorian's lips as he stood to leave. In finishing the last nettle shirt he would save not only his siblings, but Dorian as well. 

“Will you come tomorrow?” Dorian asked as he was to go. The mage’s tone held a note he had never heard before; pleading. Icthlarin pressed a reassuring kiss to his lips and went. Of course he would.

 

* * *

 

Spring slowly turned into early summer, and Icthlarin sewed on the shirt every night even though he was exhausted and his eyes burned from the strain. It was, in all honesty, his own fault since he sought Dorian’s embrace before coming to the little sewing-room to work on it. But his determination to finish it before the summer equinox kept him awake even unto the small hours of the morning. On the summer equinox, it would be the sixth anniversary of the horrific day his brothers and sisters had taken flight. It was mere days away. He had to keep working.

 

The day of the equinox, Icthlarin woke to frantic activity in the kitchen and the cook yelling at all and sundry to hurry up. In the midst of the chaos, Icthlarin managed to find out that there was to be a great gathering later for the people, and some sort of public spectacle. He did not know what it was, nor did he care, for all he could think of was that there was still stitches to be done on Feynriel’s shirt. There was still one arm to sew on, and he had mere hours to do so. 

Once he had tended the fires and seen that they were burning proudly, he went to the cook for Dorian’s tray. But there was no tray at the table, and he looked at her in confusion.

“There is no tray needed this day, Red” the cook said with a note of sadness in her voice. “They’re burning him at noon, child. For murdering the prince.” All colour left Icthlarin’s face in that moment and he swayed dangerously. One of the kitchen hands was just quick enough to catch him as he fainted.

 

Icthlarin came to lying on his cot, said kitchen hand - a young woman - watching him worriedly. She was just about to ask him if he was alright when he heard the most horrifying sound he had ever heard, worse than his siblings desperate cries as the curse took hold. Outside, in the courtyard, the bell began to toil. It was noon. Dorian was set to burn within minutes, and one word from Icthlarin could save him. But if he spoke that one word, he was condemning his siblings to fly beneath the heavens for eternity. 

 

Icthlarin flew from the cot and ran from the kitchen, ignoring the cries behind him. He ran as if his life depended on it, and in what way did it not? He had to save the man he loved - and his siblings, too. He flew through the castle, blind and deaf to the people having to dive out of his way as he raced to fetch his nettle-shirts from the little room in the southern tower. His feet barely touched the stone floor as he ran, and his heart thudded desperately in his chest.  _ Dorian,  _ his feet called as they pattered against the ground,  _ Dorian, Dorian, Dorian _ . He stumbled through the old wooden door and grabbed his basket, throwing the half-finished shirt that was to be Feynriel's into it.  _ Forgive me, little brother, _ he thought in despair for it was neither finished nor dyed. But there was no time. Without letting himself pause or catch his breath, he turned and sprinted for the courtyard, where the pyre was waiting for it’s unfortunate victim.

 

When Icthlarin stumbled into the courtyard it was just in time to see two guardsmen chain his beloved to the stake, ready to burn him alive. The courtyard was full of people come to see it happen, and most of them looked on with vicious triumph. Prince Wren was deeply loved by his people, and they wanted the man they thought of as his murderer punished. Dorian said nothing, where he stood tall and proud in front of them. Regal as a king he was, even in this moment. Never had Icthlarin loved him more. 

He forced his way through the crowd, not caring who he bumped into or whose feet he stepped on, caring only for his basket of nettle-shirts. Finally he stood before the pyre and their eyes met.

“Red” Dorian whispered and for a moment the mask fell away, showing terror and despair. Then it was back, as impenetrable as before. Icthlarin did not reply, instead he climbed the pyre so that he could kiss his love - the gods willing, not for the last time. 

“Goodbye amatus” Dorian whispered into his hair, and Icthlarin bit his lip to hold back the sobs. A pearl of fresh red blood fell from his lip onto the little shirt in the basket and by some miracle, it turned a brilliant ruby red.

 

That’s when the beating of heavy wings could be heard over the crowd as six black swans flew across the heavens, landing around their brother and the doomed mage, beating their wings threateningly and screeching threats to anyone who dared to come close. The man that was to set the pyre ablaze stood frozen, torch in hand. Icthlarin did not hesitate, but pulled a shirt from the basket. It was purple, and he threw it over the swan closest to him. In its place, there stood for a moment an elf maiden with long dark hair, her form flickering back and forth from maid to swan. The crowd gasped in shock and horror, but Icthlarin placed the circlet holding Kallian’s soul-stone in her hair and her form stopped shifting. She was free from the curse. In rapid succession, two more elf maids and two men stood on the pyre, and with a look of despair Icthlarin threw the last, unfinished shirt over the little swan at his feet. He placed the circlet on Feynriel’s soft locks and sobbed.

“Forgive me” was the first words he spoke as he fell to his knees, hugging his littlest brother who still had a swan’s wing.

“You saved me” Feynriel replied, as he put his little arm around Icthlarin’s neck. Standing up with his brother in his arms, Icthlarin turned to the king and queen and decreed:

“I am the amber prince of Brecilia, and I saw the dragon that stole the prince! Dorian is innocent!”

 

There was a moment of stunned silence, then complete chaos broke loose as everyone in the square spoke at once and did not listen to themselves nor anyone else. But Icthlarin did not care in the slightest; Fenris had with his incredible strength ripped the chains holding Dorian and he was now securely wrapped in the arms of his love.

“I just realised I don’t know your name” Dorian murmured into his hair. “I should at least know the name of my rescuer.”

“Icthlarin” he sighed happily, “My name is Icthlarin.”

That was when King Trevelyan, Wren’s father, managed to wrangle himself through the crowd to look at the people still standing on the pyre.

“Forgive us, Dorian” he said, “Please. Anything you want, it is yours.”

“Yes, it is” Dorian agreed as he looked at the redhead tucked safely to his side.

“I have all I want right here. But I would not mind a grand wedding.”

And since kings tend to be good for their word, a wedding was held that same evening for the brecilian prince and his mage. During the festivities, the king arranged for a group of mercenaries to slay the dragon and bring back his son, prince Wren, and truly there was nothing that the newlyweds wanted more. Apart from living happily ever after, of course. Which they proceeded to do post-haste. 

  
  
_ -Fin. _


End file.
